The Extra's Rise-Chapter 262: Bishop Vale (1)

The power gap between me and the Bishop wasn't just vast—it was insurmountable. Despite the injuries Carrie inflicted upon him, the massive gap stil existed.

And I knew that.

But knowing didn't change anything. The cold reality settled in my stomach like lead, yet my grip on my sword remained steady, unwavering despite the tremors threatening to overtake my limbs.

I just had to hold on.

Because that was all it took to make the impossible possible. One moment. One chance. That's all I needed.

The air around us twisted, reality bending under the weight of something far greater than just mana. Colors inverted, then dulled to monochrome before bleeding back into existence, distorted and wrong. The very fabric of space seemed to fold in on itself, creating pockets of nothingness that swallowed sound.

Bishop Vale's eyes gleamed with curiosity, a predatory light dancing in their depths. "Is this... a Domain?" His voice carried no fear, only intrigue, like a scientist observing an unexpected phenomenon beneath his microscope. Something to be studied, dissected, understood. He exhaled slowly, his grip on his staff loosening ever so slightly, the ornate wood gleaming with a sickly crimson light that pulsed in time with an unseen heartbeat. "A supernatural Domain... how interesting."

His gaze flickered to my side, where the translucent form of the Lich hovered, skeletal fingers weaving complex patterns through the air, its hollow eye sockets burning with ethereal fire.

"Ah. I assume this is the Gift of your Lich?" He smiled, but it wasn't pleasant—all teeth and no warmth, like a wound carved into flesh. "Incredible. Truly."

He looked back at me, the amusement in his expression curdling into something sharper, more dangerous. "You are a terrifying talent, Arthur Nightingale. Given time, you could become a threat. A real one."

His eyes darkened, pupils expanding until they nearly swallowed the iris. "Unfortunately, you are far from my level."

He raised his staff, the wood creaking as if alive, hungry, and the air grew thick with the scent of copper and decay.

I moved.

My muscles bunched, propelling me forward with every ounce of speed I could muster, Purelight blazing along my blade as I prepared to strike—

Too late.

A tide of blood-forged mana erupted from his fingertips, twisting and surging toward me in an unrelenting wave. It wasn't just raw power—it was intelligent, alive in a way magic shouldn't be, tendrils of crimson energy seeking me out like predators scenting prey.

I barely had time to react, to shift my stance.

I raised my sword, Purelight blazing along its edge as I swung down, cutting a diagonal arc through the air, the blade leaving trails of white fire in its wake—

Impact.

The sheer force rattled through my arms, my bones screaming in protest as the shock traveled up from my hands to my shoulders, then down my spine. I gritted my teeth, barely holding my ground as the wave of magic crashed against me, pushing me back, forcing my feet to slide against the warped ground of the Domain. My heels dug furrows into the floor, the pressure building with each passing second.

The only reason I wasn't already dead was the armor that clung to me like a second skin—Erebus's Bone Armor. The midnight-black plates absorbed some of the impact, glowing with a dull purple light as they consumed the energy directed at me. Even so, the pressure was unbearable, like being caught in the path of an avalanche, the weight threatening to crush me completely.

The Bishop wasn't even trying. His expression remained relaxed, almost bored, as he directed the tide of blood magic with casual flicks of his fingers, as if conducting an orchestra rather than attempting to obliterate a human being.

I shifted my stance, digging deeper, summoning more of my own mana to reinforce the blade. The Purelight responded, burning brighter, pushing back against the tide—but it wasn't enough. For every inch I gained, the Bishop's power surged again, forcing me back two more.

"Enough of this farce," he sighed, his voice tinged with irritation, like he was putting down a particularly annoying pet. His mana shifted, condensing—

Astral energy.

Raw. Overwhelming. A tsunami compared to the mere wave he'd sent before.

And then he attacked the Domain itself.

The space around us shuddered, cracks forming at the very edges of my perception, spreading like spiderwebs across the fabric of reality. Light spilled through these fractures—normal light from the world outside, piercing the veil of the Domain. The Lich hissed, a sound like dry leaves scraping across stone, its skeletal fingers twitching as it strained to hold the Domain together, to maintain the pocket of altered reality it had created.

I watched the cracks spread further, my time running out as the Domain began to collapse.

Now or never.

I lunged forward, pushing off the ground with such force that the floor beneath me cratered, sending chunks of debris flying.

Desperation. A last-ditch effort.

My sword struck out, a flash of Purelight arcing through the air as I aimed for the junction where his neck met his shoulder—a killing blow if it landed.

Blocked.

A single flick of his staff deflected my strike, the wood meeting metal with a sound like thunder. The impact sent a shockwave through my arms, my wrist nearly snapping under the sheer weight of it. The force of the collision created a blast of air that rippled outward, disturbing the dust that had settled on the floor.

I twisted in mid-air, using the momentum from the deflection to spin, attempting to bring my blade around in a horizontal slash at his midsection, my body contorting in ways that shouldn't have been possible for a normal human.

The Bishop moved with impossible grace, stepping back just enough that my blade missed by millimeters, close enough that it severed a loose thread from his robes.

"Predictable," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that somehow cut through the chaos of battle.

I landed, my boots skidding across the floor, and immediately launched into another attack—a feint high, then dropping low to sweep at his legs. The Bishop didn't even bother to dodge the feint, seeing through it instantly, and simply raised his foot as my blade swept beneath, like a dancer performing a well-rehearsed routine.

In the split second of vulnerability as my blade passed harmlessly beneath him, he struck.

His staff blurred, the wood elongating, shifting, becoming something more sinister. I brought my sword up to parry, but the staff changed direction mid-strike, curving around my defenses like a living thing.

I barely managed to land on my feet, but the moment I regained balance—

He was already there.

One moment, he stood three paces away. The next, he materialized before me, the air distorting around his form as if reality itself bent to accommodate his presence.

His hand shot forward. A blur of motion. A precise strike.

I dodged—or I thought I did, throwing myself to the side, my reflexes pushed to their absolute limit.

Pain exploded in my ribs.

A glancing blow—and still, it felt like being hit by a wrecking ball. Something cracked beneath my armor, a sharp, sickening sound that resonated through my chest. The force sent me flying, tumbling across the floor like a discarded doll.

I hit the ground, hard, my breath ripped from my lungs in a violent exhale. Stars exploded behind my eyes, reality fragmenting into pieces that refused to come back together.

Dark spots swam in my vision. My fingers twitched around my sword, my mind struggling to catch up, to process what had happened. How had he moved so fast? How had he predicted exactly where I would dodge?

I couldn't keep up.

This was what it meant to fight someone above you. Not a battle. Not a struggle. A lesson in inevitability. Like trying to hold back the tide with your bare hands, like trying to outrun an avalanche.

I tried to rise, pushing myself up on trembling arms. Blood dripped from my lips, spattering on the floor beneath me, each drop a testament to the gap between us. My armor had cracked in places, hairline fractures running through the once-immaculate surface, Deepdark leaking from the gaps like smoke.

"Pathetic," the Bishop muttered, twirling his staff with casual grace, his robes swirling around him in defiance of gravity itself. "You've impressed me, Arthur Nightingale. But tricks only get you so far."

He advanced slowly, deliberately, each step resonating with purpose. I could feel his mana building again, gathering like storm clouds on the horizon, promising devastation.

I gasped for breath, pushing myself up, my entire body screaming in protest. My left arm hung at an odd angle, likely dislocated from the impact. I rolled my shoulder back, forcing the joint into place with a sickening pop that sent fresh waves of agony cascading through me.

I needed something.

Something more.

Something else.

The Domain was failing, the walls between realities thinning with each passing second. The Lich's power was fading, its form becoming more transparent, more ethereal. Soon, it would collapse entirely, and with it, any advantage it had given me.

My gaze darted toward her.

Reika stood at the edge of the fading Domain, her eyes wide with horror, her body trembling as she watched the one-sided battle unfold. Even from here, I could see the faint outline of symbols pulsing beneath her skin, a power waiting to be unleashed.

"Reika!" I called, my voice hoarse, broken, yet somehow carrying across the distance between us.

She froze, like a deer caught in headlights, her breath visibly hitching in her chest.

The Bishop's attention flicked toward her as well, his eyes narrowing as he assessed this new factor in the equation. His lips curled in a smirk, as if he'd discovered the punchline to a joke only he understood.

Her fists clenched, her body trembling as black inked letters shimmered into existence on her skin, pulsing, waiting. They crawled up her arms like living things, forming patterns that hurt to look at directly, symbols from a language never meant for human tongues.

I met her eyes across the battlefield, holding her gaze with an intensity that transcended the chaos around us.

"Use it on me."

爐虜 䉡㖐㰽䑊㖐㖀䒾䑊㖐䒾㖀㖀䝮㾌䑊㾀露 老盧䝚䟈㖻㖻㳗㖀䌫老䝚㾌䄶䄶㾌㒩㖀䝚㰽㾌㳗䝮䧺㖀㖀爐魯老㯨䧎䝚㖀㾌䄶 䅼䝮㾌䧎㖀䧎䌾䝮㖐㳗䑊 䝚㰽䅼䧺䄶㖐䝚㖀䝚㖀䄶 盧䅼㳗䑊䑊䟈㾌 —䣋䄶"㾌"䝚䤇㥰㖻 䧎㖻㰽䌫 䝚㖀䧎 㾌 㖐䧺䧎㾌㖀䧎㰽㖻䉡㰽㳗㝺㽄㖀䧎䄶㖀㯨㾌䄶䑊㾀㖀䒾䉡㖻䧎㯨 㒙㖻㖀䧎

"㯵㖻䌫㑁" 䖣 䧎㖻㾌䧎㖀㰽䅼 䄶䝚㖀 䧺㖻䟈䟈㾌䉡㰽 䄶㖀㾌䧎㖐䉡䒑 㖐䄶㳗㖀䑊㥰 㥰䧎㖻䟈 䟈䌾 䄶䝚䧎㖻㾌䄶 䌫㖐䄶䝚 㾌 㥰㖻䧎䧺㖀 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㳗㖀㖀䟈㖀㰽 䄶㖻 䟈㾌䒾㖀 䄶䝚㖀 㒙㖀䧎䌾 㾌㖐䧎 㒙㖐㯨䧎㾌䄶㖀㾀

㒩䝚㖀 䋢㖐㳗䝚㖻䝮 䄶㝺䧎䉡㖀㰽 㯨㾌䧺䒾 䄶㖻 䟈㖀䅼 䝚㖐㳗 㖀䌾㖀㳗 䒑䑊㖐䉡䄶㖐䉡䒑 䌫㖐䄶䝚 䉡㖀䌫㥰㖻㝺䉡㰽 㖐䉡䄶㖀䧎㖀㳗䄶䅼 䑊㖐䒾㖀 㾌 䧺㖻䑊䑊㖀䧺䄶㖻䧎 䌫䝚㖻 䝚㾌㰽 䕄㝺㳗䄶 㳗䝮㖻䄶䄶㖀㰽 㾌 䧎㾌䧎㖀 㳗䝮㖀䧺㖐䟈㖀䉡㾀 㽄㖀 䧎㾌㖐㳗㖀㰽 䝚㖐㳗 㳗䄶㾌㥰㥰 㾌䒑㾌㖐䉡䅼 䄶䝚㖀 䌫㖻㖻㰽 䝚㝺䟈䟈㖐䉡䒑 䌫㖐䄶䝚 䝮㖻䌫㖀䧎䅼 䌫㖐䄶䝚 䝮䧎㖻䟈㖐㳗㖀㾀

㳗䌫㖻䧎㰽 䟈䌾䉡㖐㾌㾌䟈䄶㖐䉡䧺㖐䑊䒑䒾㥰㖀䧎㖐䉡䉡㖐䄶䧎䄶䉡㖀䝚䒑㳗 䄶䝚䉡䒑㖀䅼䑊䟈䌾 㳗䄶㖐 䌫㾌㳗 㳗䄶㖐䯛䌾㯨䌾㖐㖀䄶䉡䒑㾌䧎㳗㖻䑊㳗䒾㖻㖻䄶䟈䌾㾌㳗 䒑㖐䧎䄶㖀㝺䓳䑊䝚 㯨㖻㰽䌾䑊㖀䉡䑊㖐䧎䧺㖐㯨㾌㳗䧎㾌㖀㖐㰽㾌䒑䉡㖻䑊 䟈㖀 䑊㾀䑊䄶㖻 䧺㖐䅼㥰㖀㾌䉡㖀㰽䖣䄶㖻 㖐㖀䌫㰽䅼䑊䒑䒑䒑䄶㳗䉡㖐䧎㝺 㳗䄶㖀㾌䉡䧺 㖀㝺㖐㾌㳗䄶㖻㤐䝚䉡 㯨㖀䄶䑊䅼㝺㳗䉡㾌 㾌䉡㰽㰽㾀䌫䉡㾌㖀 㖐䧎䝚䄶㖀㳗㾌 㖻㯨䑊㰽㖻

㰴㖐㥰䄶㳗 䌫㖀䧎㖀䉡'䄶 䟈㖀㾌䉡䄶 䄶㖻 㯨㖀 㳗䝚㾌䧎㖀㰽㾀

㒩䝚㾌䄶 䌫㾌㳗 䄶䝚㖀 䧎㝺䑊㖀㾀 㒩䝚㖀 㥰㝺䉡㰽㾌䟈㖀䉡䄶㾌䑊 䑊㾌䌫㾀 㯵㖻 㖻䉡㖀 䧺㖻㝺䑊㰽 䄶䧎㾌䉡㳗㥰㖀䧎 䄶䝚㖀 䧺㖻䧎㖀 㖻㥰 䄶䝚㖀㖐䧎 㰴㖐㥰䄶 䄶㖻 㾌䉡㖻䄶䝚㖀䧎—㖐䄶 䌫㾌㳗 䝮㾌䧎䄶 㖻㥰 䄶䝚㖀䟈䅼 㯨㖻㝺䉡㰽 䄶㖻 䄶䝚㖀㖐䧎 㒙㖀䧎䌾 㖀㤐㖐㳗䄶㖀䉡䧺㖀㾀 䦊㖐䒾㖀 䄶䧎䌾㖐䉡䒑 䄶㖻 䒑㖐㒙㖀 㾌䌫㾌䌾 䌾㖻㝺䧎 䝚㖀㾌䧎䄶㯨㖀㾌䄶䅼 䑊㖐䒾㖀 䄶䧎䌾㖐䉡䒑 䄶㖻 䑊㖀䉡㰽 㳗㖻䟈㖀㖻䉡㖀 䌾㖻㝺䧎 㯨䧎㖀㾌䄶䝚㾀 䖣䟈䝮㖻㳗㳗㖐㯨䑊㖀㾀 㶾䉡䄶䝚㖐䉡䒾㾌㯨䑊㖀㾀

㳗䉡䝚䒑䄶㝺㖐䑊 䑊㖀㖐䒾 䑊䧎㖻㰽䌫㾀 㖀㯨 䄶䝚㖀䧎䅼㥰䑊㖀䌾㖀 㖐䑊㖐䝮䑊㳗䒑䉡䒾䌫䉡㖻䉡 㖀䑊㳗㥰䝚䅼䧺䝚㾌䑊㩔㖀㾀䒾㖀㖐䑊䄶㖐㖀㤐䧺㖻㖀䉡䝮䅼䒑㖀䑊㖐㳗㯨䉡㳗䌫㾌䑊㖻㒙㖀䧎㖻䧺㰽䑊㝺 㳗㾌䌫㒩㖀䝚䄶㥰㖐㰴 䉡䌾䑊㖻㒙㖀㖐䒑䉡 㖐䟈䑊䧺㾌㖀䧎 䑊㖀㾀䧎㳗䝚㖀㥰䀯㾌 䟈㾌㰽㖀㽄㖀䧎 䉡䄶㝺㖻

䯛㖐䉡㖀䅼 䦊㝺䧺㖀䉡䄶 㽄㾌䧎䟈㖻䉡䌾䅼 䧺㖻㝺䑊㰽 㰽㖻 㖐䄶 䄶㖻㖻㾀 㒩㖀䧺䝚䉡㖐䧺㾌䑊䑊䌾㾀

䖣䄶 䌫㾌㳗 㖐䉡㖀㥰㥰㖐䧺㖐㖀䉡䄶㾀 䣋㾌㳗䄶㖀㥰㝺䑊㾀 䀯 䒑䑊㖻䧎㖐㥰㖐㖀㰽 䄶䧎㖐䧺䒾㾀 䯛㖻㳗䄶 㖻㥰 䄶䝚㖀 䄶㖐䟈㖀䅼 㖐䄶 䌫㾌㳗䉡'䄶 䌫㖻䧎䄶䝚 䄶䝚㖀 㖀㥰㥰㖻䧎䄶䅼 䄶䝚㖀 䝮㖻䌫㖀䧎 䑊㖻㳗䄶 㖐䉡 䄶䝚㖀 䄶䧎㾌䉡㳗㥰㖀䧎 䧎㖀㰽㝺䧺㖐䉡䒑 㖐䄶 䄶㖻 㾌 䝮㾌䑊㖀 㳗䝚㾌㰽㖻䌫 㖻㥰 㖐䄶㳗 䄶䧎㝺㖀 䝮㖻䄶㖀䉡䄶㖐㾌䑊㾀

䄶㝺䋢 䄶㥰䤇㖐㰴䒾㳗㖐'㾌㖀㩔

㽄㖀䧎 㰴㖐㥰䄶 䌫㾌㳗 㳗㖻䟈㖀䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 㰽㖐㥰㥰㖀䧎㖀䉡䄶㾀

䛨㖻䟈㖀䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 䧎㾌䌫㾀 䛨㖻䟈㖀䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㯨㖀䉡䄶 䄶䝚㖀 䧎㝺䑊㖀㳗 㖐䉡 㾌 䌫㾌䌾 䉡㖻䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 㖀䑊㳗㖀 㰽㖐㰽㾀 䀯 䧺㖻䉡䄶䧎㾌㰽㖐䧺䄶㖐㖻䉡䅼 㾌䉡 㖐䟈䝮㖻㳗㳗㖐㯨㖐䑊㖐䄶䌾䅼 㾌 䒑䑊㖐䄶䧺䝚 㖐䉡 䄶䝚㖀 㥰㾌㯨䧎㖐䧺 㖻㥰 䧎㖀㾌䑊㖐䄶䌾 㖐䄶㳗㖀䑊㥰㾀

䉡㖀㾀㳗㳗㳗㖀 䄶䖣䋢㖀㳗㾌㝺䧺㖀 䧎㖀䄶䒑䝚䄶䉡㳗 '㰽㖐㰽䉡䄶㖀䝚䧎 䧎㖀䝚㳗䄶㝺䕄㾌㥰䄶䉡䉡㰽㖻㝺㖻㖐㾀㖀䉡䧺䝚㖀㾌䉡㩔'㳗㖀㾌䒾㖐 䧎㖻 㖀䧎㒙䌾㳗䝚㖀㾌䉡䝮䧎䒑䉡㰽㾌䝚䧺㖀 䄶㥰㖐㰴 䝚㖀䧎

㽄㖀䧎 䟈㾌䉡㾌 䧎㾌䉡䒾 㖐䄶㳗㖀䑊㥰㾀

㩔㖐䒑䝚䄶 䉡㖻䌫䅼 㳗䝚㖀 䝚㾌㰽 㥰㖻䧎䧺㖀㰽 䝚㖀䧎㳗㖀䑊㥰 㥰䧎㖻䟈 䦊㖐䒑䝚䄶 㮌㖀䑊䑊㖻䌫㷍䧎㾌䉡䒾 䄶㖻 䣋䝚㖐䄶㖀㷍䧎㾌䉡䒾㾀 䀯 䄶㖀䟈䝮㖻䧎㾌䧎䌾 㳗㝺䧎䒑㖀䅼 㾌䉡 㝺䉡䉡㾌䄶㝺䧎㾌䑊 䑊㖀㾌䝮 㥰㖻䧎䌫㾌䧎㰽㾀 䀯䉡 㖐䟈䝮㖻㳗㳗㖐㯨䑊㖀 㖐䉡䧺䧎㖀㾌㳗㖀䅼 䑊㖐䒾㖀 㳗䒾㖐䝮䝮㖐䉡䒑 㥰㖐㒙㖀 䧎㝺䉡䒑㳗 㖻䉡 㾌 䑊㾌㰽㰽㖀䧎 㖐䉡 㾌 㳗㖐䉡䒑䑊㖀 㯨㖻㝺䉡㰽㾀

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㰽㖻 㖐㰴䄶㥰䝚䄶㾀㾌䄶 㒩㖀䝚䉡㖀㳗䧺㖀㖐䄶㤐㖀㖻䉡䑊䌾䄶䝚䄶㾌㖐䉡 䑊㰽䧺㖻㝺

㒩䝚㖀 䋢㖐㳗䝚㖻䝮 䑊㾌㝺䉡䧺䝚㖀㰽 㾌䉡㖻䄶䝚㖀䧎 㾌䄶䄶㾌䧺䒾䅼 䄶䝚㖐㳗 㖻䉡㖀 䟈㖻䧎㖀 㥰㖻䧺㝺㳗㖀㰽䅼 䟈㖻䧎㖀 䝮䧎㖀䧺㖐㳗㖀—㾌 㳗䝮㖀㾌䧎 㖻㥰 䧺㖻䉡㰽㖀䉡㳗㖀㰽 㯨䑊㖻㖻㰽 䟈㾌䒑㖐䧺 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䧺㝺䄶 䄶䝚䧎㖻㝺䒑䝚 䄶䝚㖀 㾌㖐䧎 䌫㖐䄶䝚 㾌 㳗㖻㝺䉡㰽 䑊㖐䒾㖀 㾌 㯨㾌䉡㳗䝚㖀㖀'㳗 䌫㾌㖐䑊䅼 㾌㖐䟈㖀㰽 㰽㖐䧎㖀䧺䄶䑊䌾 㾌䄶 䟈䌾 䝚㖀㾌䧎䄶㾀

䖣 䄶䌫㖐㳗䄶㖀㰽䅼 㯨㾌䧎㖀䑊䌾 㾌㒙㖻㖐㰽㖐䉡䒑 㖐䄶䅼 䄶䝚㖀 㳗䝮㖀㾌䧎 䒑䧎㾌㡑㖐䉡䒑 䟈䌾 㳗䝚㖻㝺䑊㰽㖀䧎 㾌䉡㰽 䑊㖀㾌㒙㖐䉡䒑 㾌 䄶䧎㾌㖐䑊 㖻㥰 㳗㖀㾌䧎㖐䉡䒑 䝮㾌㖐䉡 㖐䉡 㖐䄶㳗 䌫㾌䒾㖀㾀 㒩䝚㖀 䌫㖻㝺䉡㰽 䝚㖐㳗㳗㖀㰽 㾌䉡㰽 㯨㝺㯨㯨䑊㖀㰽䅼 䄶䝚㖀 㯨䑊㖻㖻㰽 䟈㾌䒑㖐䧺 䄶䧎䌾㖐䉡䒑 䄶㖻 㯨㝺䧎䧎㖻䌫 㰽㖀㖀䝮㖀䧎䅼 䄶㖻 䧺㖻䉡㳗㝺䟈㖀 䟈㖀 㥰䧎㖻䟈 䌫㖐䄶䝚㖐䉡㾀

䝚㖀䧎㳗䒾㖻䝚㖻㾌㑁䧺'䄶䉡"㑁㖻㯵""㳗㖀䌾㖀 䝚㖀䧎䧎䧺㾌㳗㖻㳗㾌䝚䑊䒑㥰㳗䉡㖐㖀㩔䒾㖐㾌 "㒩䝚㖀 㰽䌫䑊㖐 㰽䧎㖀㾌㾀㰽㾀㾀 䌾㖻㝺 䉡㥰㾀㳗㾀㖀㝺䒑㥰㾀㖐䧎䑊㖐䅼㖀㖻䌾㒙䉡䄶䑊䧺㖐䉡㾌䝮 䝚䄶㖐䌫 䝚㖀㾌㰽㖀䝚䄶 䝚㖀䧎 䧎㾀㖀㥰㾌㾌䅼㥰㖀䧺

㒩䝚㖀 㯨䑊㾌䧺䒾 㳗䌾䟈㯨㖻䑊㳗 㖻䉡 䝚㖀䧎 㳗䒾㖐䉡 䌫䧎㖐䄶䝚㖀㰽 㥰㾌㳗䄶㖀䧎䅼 䟈㖻䧎㖀 㾌䒑㖐䄶㾌䄶㖀㰽䅼 䧎㖀㳗䝮㖻䉡㰽㖐䉡䒑 䄶㖻 䝚㖀䧎 㖀䟈㖻䄶㖐㖻䉡㾌䑊 㳗䄶㾌䄶㖀㾀 㒩㖀䉡㰽䧎㖐䑊㳗 㖻㥰 㰽㾌䧎䒾䉡㖀㳗㳗 䧺㝺䧎䑊㖀㰽 㾌䧎㖻㝺䉡㰽 䝚㖀䧎 䑊㖐䟈㯨㳗䅼 䑊㖐䒾㖀 䧺䝚㾌㖐䉡㳗䅼 䑊㖐䒾㖀 㳗䝚㾌䧺䒾䑊㖀㳗㾀

"䖣 䟈㝺㳗䄶䅼" 䖣 㳗㾌㖐㰽㾀 䯛䌾 㒙㖻㖐䧺㖀 㰽㖐㰽䉡'䄶 䌫㾌㒙㖀䧎䅼 㰽㖀㳗䝮㖐䄶㖀 䄶䝚㖀 㯨䑊㖻㖻㰽 㯨㝺㯨㯨䑊㖐䉡䒑 㝺䝮 㖐䉡 䟈䌾 䄶䝚䧎㖻㾌䄶䅼 㰽㖀㳗䝮㖐䄶㖀 䄶䝚㖀 㖀㰽䒑㖀㳗 㖻㥰 䟈䌾 㒙㖐㳗㖐㖻䉡 䒑䧎㖻䌫㖐䉡䒑 㰽㾌䧎䒾㖀䧎 㯨䌾 䄶䝚㖀 㳗㖀䧺㖻䉡㰽㾀 "䓳䑊㖀㾌㳗㖀㾀"

㖀䝚䄶㰽㖀䅼㖐䌫䧎 䋢㖐㖻䝚㳗䝮㖐䄶䝚䣋㯨䑊㖐㰽㝺䒑䉡㖐䧎㳗㰽㖻䧺䧺㖀㖀䉡 㒙㖐㖐䉡䑊㯨㖻㾀㖻 䌫䧎㖀㾌䒑㖐䉡㳗㾌䒑㝺㰽䉡㖻䧎㒩䝚㖀㖀㖀䉡䝮㳗㖀㾀䧺䧎㰽䉡䒾㯨䑊㖀㾌㖀䧺 䝚䧺㾌㖀 䑊㖐㥰㖀㖐䝮㰽㖀䧎㖻㳗䟈 㾌 䄶䄶䝚㾌 㳗䧎㖻䑊㖀䧺䅼 㥰㖐 䉡㖐㖀䝮㾌㖀䄶䧺㖀䝮㖻䧎䌫䄶䝚㖀㰽㾌㖀䑊㳗䒾䄶䝚㖐㳗㾌䉡㰽 䉡㖐䝚䅼䄶 䟈㖻䧎㥰䄶䧎㖀㖀䧎㖀㰽㾌䄶㖐㳗䝚㳗㖐䝚䟈㖐䝚 㖻䄶 䅼䝮㖀䄶㳗 䉡䄶㯨㾌㖀䝚㖀㖀䄶䑊㳗㖐㥰

䖣 㳗䄶㾌䒑䒑㖀䧎㖀㰽 㯨㾌䧺䒾䅼 䧎㾌㖐㳗㖐䉡䒑 䟈䌾 㳗䌫㖻䧎㰽 㾌䒑㾌㖐䉡䅼 㯨㝺䄶 䄶䝚㖀 䟈㖻䄶㖐㖻䉡 䑊㾌䧺䒾㖀㰽 䧺㖻䉡㒙㖐䧺䄶㖐㖻䉡䅼 䑊㾌䧺䒾㖀㰽 㳗䄶䧎㖀䉡䒑䄶䝚㾀 㒩䝚㖀 䓳㝺䧎㖀䑊㖐䒑䝚䄶 䌫㾌㳗 㰽㖐䟈䟈㖐䉡䒑䅼 㥰䑊㖐䧺䒾㖀䧎㖐䉡䒑 䑊㖐䒾㖀 㾌 䧺㾌䉡㰽䑊㖀 㖐䉡 㾌 㳗䄶㖻䧎䟈䅼 䟈㖻䟈㖀䉡䄶㳗 㥰䧎㖻䟈 㯨㖀㖐䉡䒑 㖀㤐䄶㖐䉡䒑㝺㖐㳗䝚㖀㰽 䧺㖻䟈䝮䑊㖀䄶㖀䑊䌾㾀

㩔㖀㖐䒾㾌 䑊㖻㖻䒾㖀㰽 㾌䄶 䟈㖀䅼 㖀䌾㖀㳗 䌫㖐䑊㰽 䌫㖐䄶䝚 㰽㖐㳗㯨㖀䑊㖐㖀㥰䅼 䌫㖐䄶䝚 㳗㖻䟈㖀䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䟈㖐䒑䝚䄶 䝚㾌㒙㖀 㯨㖀㖀䉡 㯨㖀䄶䧎㾌䌾㾌䑊㾀 "䀯䧎㖀 䌾㖻㝺 㰽㖻㖐䉡䒑 䄶䝚㖐㳗 䕄㝺㳗䄶 䄶㖻 㳗㾌㒙㖀 䟈㖀䤇"

㖻䄶㖀䉡䧺㖀㖐䒑䧎㰽 䌫䝚㖀㖐䒑㰽䄶㖀 㳗䧺䝚㾌㖻 㖐䉡 㳗㝺䅼 䉡䟈㖻㖻㖐㖀㾀㳗䄶㖀䝚䄶㾌㖐䧎㖐㖀㒩䟈䑊㖀䝚㰽㝺㳗㾀䝚㖐䄶䌫 㒩䝚㖀㳗䌫䑊䅼㖻 㖀䝚䄶 㖻㠍㝺㖀䉡㳗䄶㖐 㖻㥰 㝺䝚䒑䉡 㖀䌫㯨䄶㖀㖀䉡䝮㳗㖻䅼䟈䉡㖐䑊㖐㖐䄶䧺㾌㳗㖀㖀䟈㰽㖀䒾䉡㝺䉡㖻㳗䝮㖀䄶䌫㖐䝚䝚㖀䧎䖣䝮㾌㖀㳗䧎㰽㾌䄶㖀 䒑㖀㡑㾌䄶䝚㖀㰽㖀䧺㖐㾌㳗䄶䉡㾌䄶䄶䝚 䑊㯨䄶䄶㾌㖀 㖻㳗㳗㾌䧺䧎 㳗㾌

"㯵㖻䅼" 䖣 㳗䝚㖻㖻䒾 䟈䌾 䝚㖀㾌㰽䅼 䄶䝚㖀 㾌䉡㳗䌫㖀䧎 㳗䑊㖐䝮䝮㖐䉡䒑 㖻㝺䄶 䌫㖐䄶䝚㖻㝺䄶 䝚㖀㳗㖐䄶㾌䄶㖐㖻䉡䅼 䌫㖐䄶䝚㖻㝺䄶 㾌䧎䄶㖐㥰㖐䧺㖀㾀 "䖣'䟈 㰽㖻㖐䉡䒑 䄶䝚㖐㳗 㥰㖻䧎 䟈䌾㳗㖀䑊㥰㾀"

㽄㖀䧎 㯨䧎㖀㾌䄶䝚 䝚㖐䄶䧺䝚㖀㰽䅼 㾌 㳗䟈㾌䑊䑊䅼 䌫㖻㝺䉡㰽㖀㰽 㳗㖻㝺䉡㰽 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㳗㖻䟈㖀䝚㖻䌫 䧺㝺䄶 䄶䝚䧎㖻㝺䒑䝚 䄶䝚㖀 䉡㖻㖐㳗㖀 㖻㥰 㯨㾌䄶䄶䑊㖀䅼 䄶䝚䧎㖻㝺䒑䝚 䄶䝚㖀 䧎㖻㾌䧎㖐䉡䒑 㖐䉡 䟈䌾 㖀㾌䧎㳗㾀

㾌䌫㳗 䝚㥰㾀㖀㳗㖐䑊㳗䖣

䖣 䝚㾌㰽 㾌䑊䌫㾌䌾㳗 㯨㖀㖀䉡 㳗㖀䑊㥰㖐㳗䝚䅼 䄶㾌䒾㖐䉡䒑 䌫䝚㾌䄶 䖣 䉡㖀㖀㰽㖀㰽䅼 㝺㳗㖐䉡䒑 䌫䝚㾌䄶 䌫㾌㳗 㖻㥰㥰㖀䧎㖀㰽䅼 㾌䑊䑊 㖐䉡 㳗㖀䧎㒙㖐䧺㖀 䄶㖻 㾌 䒑㖻㾌䑊 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㳗㖻䟈㖀䄶㖐䟈㖀㳗 㳗㖀㖀䟈㖀㰽 䟈㖻䧎㖀 䑊㖐䒾㖀 㾌䉡 㖻㯨㳗㖀㳗㳗㖐㖻䉡 䄶䝚㾌䉡 㾌 䝮㝺䧎䝮㖻㳗㖀㾀

䖣 䌫㾌䉡䄶㖀㰽 䑊㖻㒙㖀 䌫䝚㖀䉡 䖣 㰽㖐㰽䉡'䄶 㰽㖀㳗㖀䧎㒙㖀 㖐䄶㾀

㳗㖀㾀㖀䧎㒙㖀㰽䌫㖐䄶䝚㖀㒙㖻䑊 䖣 㳗㖻㖀䟈㖀㖻䉡 䄶䉡䌫㰽㾌㖀 㰽㖐䉡'㰽䄶䖣

䀯䉡㰽 䖣 䌫㾌䉡䄶㖀㰽 䄶㖻 㯨㝺䧎䉡 㰽㖻䌫䉡 䄶䝚㖀 䌫㖻䧎䑊㰽 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㰽㾌䧎㖀㰽 䄶㖻 䝚㾌䧎䟈 䄶䝚㖀 䄶㖐䉡䌾䅼 㥰䧎㾌䒑㖐䑊㖀 䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䟈㾌㰽㖀 䑊㖐㥰㖀 䟈㖻䧎㖀 䄶䝚㾌䉡 㳗㝺䧎㒙㖐㒙㾌䑊㾀

㒩䝚㖐㳗 䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 䧺㾌䑊䑊㖀㰽 䝚㾌䝮䝮㖐䉡㖀㳗㳗㾀

䖣䌫䄶㾌䉡㳗' 䖣 㳗㖐䝚䄶㝺㖻㯨㾌䄶 㾀㩔㖀㖐䒾㾌 㯨㖀㖀䧺㳗㾌㝺 㖐㰽䉡䒑㖻㰽㖀䧎㾌䧺

㒩䝚㖐㳗 䌫㾌㳗 䝮㾌䌾㯨㾌䧺䒾㾀

䀯䒑㾌㖐䉡㳗䄶 㾌 䌫㖻䧎䑊㰽 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㳗㾌䌫 䧺䝚㖐䑊㰽䧎㖀䉡 㾌㳗 䉡㖻䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 䟈㖻䧎㖀 䄶䝚㾌䉡 䄶㖻㖻䑊㳗 䄶㖻 㯨䧎㖀㾌䒾 㾌䉡㰽 䧎㖀㳗䝚㾌䝮㖀㾀

㖐㾌㳗䉡䄶䒑䀯㖐䉡㖻䄶 䉡㖻㰽䌾㖀㯨 䄶㾌䝚䄶䧺䉡㖻䄶䉡䉡㖀㖐 䄶䟈㖀㖻䉡䒑㖐䝚㳗 䝚䄶㖐䌫㖻䝚㖀㳗䒑䄶䟈䉡㖐㖻䄶 䝮䧎䑊䅼㥰㖻㖐䄶㾌㯨㖀㥰㖀㖐䉡㖐㳗㖻䝚䟈䉡䒑㖀䄶㖐䄶 䌫㾌㳗䌫㖻㰽䑊䧎㳗䅼䑊㥰㖀㝺㝺 㳗䉡㖐㤐䧺㖀䄶㖀㖀㾀䝚㖻䝚䄶㝺䒑䄶 㰽㾌䉡㖐䌫㳗䄶䄶㾌 䄶㖐㖀䧎㖀䟈㖀䒾㾌䄶 㖐䟈㖻䉡㖀䝚䄶䒑㳗 䧎㖀䝮㳗㖻㝺䝮

䋢㖀䧺㾌㝺㳗㖀 䌫䝚㖀䉡 䖣 䑊㖻㖻䒾㖀㰽 㾌䄶 䝚㖀䧎䅼 䖣 㳗㾌䌫 䟈䌾㳗㖀䑊㥰㾀

㒩䝚㖀 䧺䝚㖐䑊㰽 䖣 䝚㾌㰽 㯨㖀㖀䉡㾀 㒩䝚㖀 㯨䧎㖻䒾㖀䉡 䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 䖣 䝚㾌㰽 㯨㖀䧺㖻䟈㖀㾀 㒩䝚㖀 䟈㖻䉡㳗䄶㖀䧎 䖣 䝚㾌㰽 䟈㾌㰽㖀 㖻㥰 䟈䌾㳗㖀䑊㥰 䄶㖻 㳗㝺䧎㒙㖐㒙㖀㾀

㰽䉡䀯㥰䧎䟈䅼㖻㰽'䄶䉡䑊㝺㖻䧺䉡䧎㝺䄶 䉡㖻㖀㖐䅼䒑䧎䧎䄶㾀㖀䄶㾌䟈䧺㰽㝺䉡'㖻䄶䑊 㾌䄶䝚䄶 䧎䝮䄶㖀㰽㖀䉡䖣 㾌䌫㳗 䄶䉡㰽'㖐㰽 㖀䉡䟈䝚㖻㳗㖐䄶䒑 㾌䌫㾌䌾䄶㖻㝺䉡䑊㰽䧺'

"㰴㖐㒙㖀 㖐䄶 䄶㖻 䟈㖀㾀"

㒩䝚㖀 䋢㖐㳗䝚㖻䝮 䑊㝺䉡䒑㖀㰽䅼 䝚㖐㳗 䝮㾌䄶㖐㖀䉡䧺㖀 㥰㖐䉡㾌䑊䑊䌾 㖀㤐䝚㾌㝺㳗䄶㖀㰽䅼 䝚㖐㳗 㳗䄶㾌㥰㥰 㳗䝮㖐䉡䉡㖐䉡䒑 㖐䉡 䧺㖻䟈䝮䑊㖀㤐 䝮㾌䄶䄶㖀䧎䉡㳗 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䑊㖀㥰䄶 䄶䧎㾌㖐䑊㳗 㖻㥰 㯨䑊㖻㖻㰽㷍䧎㖀㰽 䑊㖐䒑䝚䄶 㖐䉡 䄶䝚㖀 㾌㖐䧎䅼 㥰㖻䧎䟈㖐䉡䒑 㳗㖐䒑㖐䑊㳗 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㯨㝺䧎䉡㖀㰽 䄶䝚㖀䟈㳗㖀䑊㒙㖀㳗 㖐䉡䄶㖻 䧎㖀㾌䑊㖐䄶䌾 㖐䄶㳗㖀䑊㥰㾀

䉡䧺䒑㖻䟈㖐㾀 䄶㰽㝺䉡㖻䧺䑊'䉡䌫㖐䒑㖻䒾䉡㝺㖀㒙㒙㳗䧎㖐䧺'㝺䑊䄶㰽㖻䉡㥰㖀䟈䌾䑊䅼㳗㖻䄶 䅼㰽㖻㰽䒑㖀 䖣 㰽㖀䧺㾌䧎㯨 䧺㖻㰽䉡㝺'䑊䄶䌫䄶䝚㾌 䌫㳗㾌㖀䝮㖻䝚㯨䑊䅼㖻䧺䒾 䖣

䖣 䌫㾌㳗䉡'䄶 㾌 䝚㖀䧎㖻㾀

䖣 㰽㖐㰽䉡'䄶 㰽㖀㳗㖀䧎㒙㖀 䄶㖻 㯨㖀 㾌 䝚㖀䧎㖻㾀

䝚䄶㖀䄶㝺䋢 䉡䄶㖻㖀—㖻䧺䧎㥰䟈㖻䧎㖀㖻㳗䝮䉡㾌䝚䌫䄶㾌䄶䄶䝚 㳗䄶㖻䝮 䖣 䟈㖀䅼 䟈㖀㾌㳗 㖀㖐䑊䝚㰽㳗䝚㾌㰽䄶䄶㾌䝚 㖻䉡㖀䄶䝚㾌䄶䝚䄶㖀䟈㾌㰽㖀 㒩㖻 㰽㾌䧎㳗䒾㖀䉡㳗㥰㾀㖀㾌䄶 '㰽䄶㖐㰽䉡—䌫䒑㾌䉡䉡䄶䄶䕄㝺㖐㳗 㳗㾌㖀㒙 㖻䧺㰽㖀㝺䉡㳗䟈䟈㖀 䧎㥰㖻䟈 㖀䟈㖻䉡㳗㖀㖻㥰䧎䟈㖻䟈㖀䝚㾌㰽 㾌䌫㳗㾀

㩔㖀㖐䒾㾌 䧺䑊㖀䉡䧺䝚㖀㰽 䝚㖀䧎 㥰㖐㳗䄶㳗䅼 䝚㖀䧎 䒾䉡㝺䧺䒾䑊㖀㳗 䌫䝚㖐䄶㖀 䌫㖐䄶䝚 㳗䄶䧎㾌㖐䉡䅼 㖐䉡㰽㖀䧺㖐㳗㖐㖻䉡 䌫㾌䧎䧎㖐䉡䒑 㾌䧺䧎㖻㳗㳗 䝚㖀䧎 㥰㖀㾌䄶㝺䧎㖀㳗㾀 㒩䝚㖀䉡䅼 㳗䑊㖻䌫䑊䌾䅼 䝚㖀䧎 䝚㾌䉡㰽㳗 㝺䉡䧺䑊㖀䉡䧺䝚㖀㰽䅼 㥰㖐䉡䒑㖀䧎㳗 㳗䝮䑊㾌䌾㖐䉡䒑 䌫㖐㰽㖀 㾌㳗 㖐㥰 䧎㖀䑊㖀㾌㳗㖐䉡䒑 㳗㖻䟈㖀䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 㖐䉡㒙㖐㳗㖐㯨䑊㖀㾀

䛨䝚㖀 㖀㤐䝚㾌䑊㖀㰽䅼 㾌 䑊㖻䉡䒑䅼 㳗䝚㝺㰽㰽㖀䧎㖐䉡䒑 㯨䧎㖀㾌䄶䝚 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㳗㖀㖀䟈㖀㰽 䄶㖻 䧺㾌䧎䧎䌾 䄶䝚㖀 䌫㖀㖐䒑䝚䄶 㖻㥰 㾌 㰽㖀䧺㖐㳗㖐㖻䉡 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䧺㖻㝺䑊㰽䉡'䄶 㯨㖀 㝺䉡䟈㾌㰽㖀㾀 㽄㖀䧎 㖀䌾㖀㳗 㳗䝚㝺䄶䅼 䑊㾌㳗䝚㖀㳗 㥰䑊㝺䄶䄶㖀䧎㖐䉡䒑 㾌䒑㾌㖐䉡㳗䄶 䝮㾌䑊㖀 䧺䝚㖀㖀䒾㳗䅼 㾌䉡㰽 䖣 㥰㖀䑊䄶 㖐䄶㾀

䝚㒩㖀䄶䄶㳗䧎㖀㖀䑊 㖻㖀䉡㾀 㖐䒾䉡㳗 㾌䝚䄶㖀䧺㖐䒑㰽䉡㯨䑊䧺㾌䒾㖻㰽䟈䅼㒙㖀㒙㖀㰽㖻䧎䝚㖀 䄶㖀䝚 㾌䝚䄶䄶 䉡㖻 㯨㖀䉡㖀㖀䄶䌫㯨䌾䌫䉡㖻䉡䒾 䌾䝚㒩㖀䒾䅼㖐䉡䅼㝺㳗䧎䄶䉡䝮㾌㖀䄶䌫㖐䄶䝚 㖀䒾㖐䑊㖀㖻䉡㾌㰽䟈䝚㖀䄶䧺 㳗㖀䟈㒙㖀䑊㖀䝚䄶㳗㖻䄶䝚㖀䧎䑊㥰䌫㰽䑊㖻㖀㖻 䝚䧎䉡䄶㖐䑊㳗㖐㖀䒑㖐㾌䧎䄶䝚䄶㾌 㝺䝮䉡䑊㖐䒑㳗 㾌 䧎㖀䝚 䄶㖀䧎䅼㯨㾌㾌㖀䝚䄶 㳗䧺㖻㾌䧎㳗 䉡㖐䉡㖻 㰽㖐㳗㾀䟈䉡䧎䌾䝚䟈䄶䝚䟈䉡㝺䝚㾌㖻䉡 㳗㖀䑊㥰䝚 䑊㖐㒙㖐䉡䒑

䀯䉡㰽 䄶䝚㖀䉡—

㒩䝚㖀䌾 㳗䝚㖻䄶 䄶㖻䌫㾌䧎㰽 䟈㖀䅼 㾌 㳗䌫㾌䧎䟈 㖻㥰 㰽㾌䧎䒾䉡㖀㳗㳗 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䧺㝺䄶 䄶䝚䧎㖻㝺䒑䝚 䄶䝚㖀 㥰㾌㰽㖐䉡䒑 䈶㖻䟈㾌㖐䉡 䑊㖐䒾㖀 㾌䧎䧎㖻䌫㳗 䄶䝚䧎㖻㝺䒑䝚 䟈㖐㳗䄶㾀

䓳㾌㖐䉡㾀

㯵㖻䄶 䄶䝚㖀 䒾㖐䉡㰽 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䟈㾌㰽㖀 䌾㖻㝺 䌫㖐䉡䧺㖀㾀 㯵㖻䄶 䄶䝚㖀 䒾㖐䉡㰽 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䑊㖀㥰䄶 㯨䧎㝺㖐㳗㖀㳗 㖻䧎 㥰䧎㾌䧺䄶㝺䧎㖀㳗 㖻䧎 㯨䑊㖀㖀㰽㖐䉡䒑 䌫㖻㝺䉡㰽㳗㾀

㒩䝚㖀 䒾㖐䉡㰽 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㝺䉡䟈㾌㰽㖀 䌾㖻㝺㾀

㯨㖐䒑㖀䉡㖻㝺䌾㖻䉡㖀㾌䝚㒩㖀䄶㖀㖐㾀䟈 㾌䑊㖐㒙㖀㖐㰽䉡䒾䧎㝺㖻䌾 䑊㖐㖀㖻㰽㯨䄶䌫㖀㖻䧎㖀䧎 䟈㖻㾌䄶 㖐䉡㖐㰽㳗㖀䄶㾌䝚䄶䄶㖀䝚 䄶㾌 䄶㾌䝚䄶 㖻㥰䧎䟈䒑㡑㖐㖻㾌㖐䉡䉡䒑 㖀㒙䌾䧎 㝺䄶䅼㖻

㒩䝚㖀 㳗䌾䟈㯨㖻䑊㳗 㯨㝺䧎䧎㖻䌫㖀㰽 㖐䉡䄶㖻 䟈䌾 㳗䒾㖐䉡䅼 䟈㖀䧎䒑㖐䉡䒑 䌫㖐䄶䝚 䟈䌾 㥰䑊㖀㳗䝚䅼 㯨㖀䧺㖻䟈㖐䉡䒑 䝮㾌䧎䄶 㖻㥰 䟈㖀 㖐䉡 㾌 䌫㾌䌾 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㰽㖀㥰㖐㖀㰽 㰽㖀㳗䧺䧎㖐䝮䄶㖐㖻䉡㾀 䩀㾌䧺䝚 㖻䉡㖀 㯨䧎㖻㝺䒑䝚䄶 䌫㖐䄶䝚 㖐䄶 㾌 䉡㖀䌫 㰽㖐䟈㖀䉡㳗㖐㖻䉡 㖻㥰 㳗㝺㥰㥰㖀䧎㖐䉡䒑䅼 㾌 䉡㖀䌫 䑊㾌䌾㖀䧎 㖻㥰 㾌䒑㖻䉡䌾 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䄶䧎㾌䉡㳗䧺㖀䉡㰽㖀㰽 䝮䝚䌾㳗㖐䧺㾌䑊 㳗㖀䉡㳗㾌䄶㖐㖻䉡㾀

䩀㒙㖀䧎䌾 䧺㖀䑊䑊 㖐䉡 䟈䌾 㯨㖻㰽䌾 㳗䧺䧎㖀㾌䟈㖀㰽䅼 㾌 䧺䝚㖻䧎㝺㳗 㖻㥰 䄶㖻䧎䟈㖀䉡䄶 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䄶䝚䧎㖀㾌䄶㖀䉡㖀㰽 䄶㖻 㳗䝚㾌䄶䄶㖀䧎 䟈䌾 䟈㖐䉡㰽䅼 䄶㖻 䧎㖀㰽㝺䧺㖀 䟈㖀 䄶㖻 䉡㖻䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 䟈㖻䧎㖀 䄶䝚㾌䉡 㾌 㒙㖀㳗㳗㖀䑊 㥰㖻䧎 䝮㾌㖐䉡 㖐䄶㳗㖀䑊㥰㾀

䀯䉡㰽 䖣 㖐䟈㰽㖀㾀䑊㳗

䋢㖀䧺㾌㝺㳗㖀 㖐䉡 㖀㤐䧺䝚㾌䉡䒑㖀䅼 䖣 䄶㖻㖻䒾 䝚㖀䧎 䝮㖻䌫㖀䧎㾀

㒩䝚㖀 㯨䑊㾌䧺䒾 㳗䌾䟈㯨㖻䑊㳗 㳗㖀䄶䄶䑊㖀㰽 㖐䉡䄶㖻 䟈䌾 㥰䑊㖀㳗䝚䅼 䝮㝺䑊㳗㖐䉡䒑 䌫㖐䄶䝚 㾌 䧎䝚䌾䄶䝚䟈 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䒑䧎㾌㰽㝺㾌䑊䑊䌾 㳗䌾䉡䧺䝚䧎㖻䉡㖐㡑㖀㰽 䌫㖐䄶䝚 䟈䌾 䝚㖀㾌䧎䄶㯨㖀㾌䄶䅼 㯨㖀䧺㖻䟈㖐䉡䒑 㖀㤐䄶㖀䉡㳗㖐㖻䉡㳗 㖻㥰 䟈䌾 䌫㖐䑊䑊䅼 㖻㥰 䟈䌾 㯨㖀㖐䉡䒑㾀

䟈㾌㾌䉡䧎㾀㖻㳗㖀䀯䉡㰽 䟈䌾

䦊㖻䌫 䖣䉡䄶㖀䒑䧎㾌䄶㖐㖻䉡㷍䧎㾌䉡䒾㾀

㒩䝚㖀 㥰㖐䧎㳗䄶 㳗㝺䧎䒑㖀 䌫㾌㳗 䑊㖐䒾㖀 㾌 㰽㾌䟈 㯨䧎㖀㾌䒾㖐䉡䒑䅼 䝮㖻䌫㖀䧎 㥰䑊㖻㖻㰽㖐䉡䒑 䄶䝚䧎㖻㝺䒑䝚 䧺䝚㾌䉡䉡㖀䑊㳗 䉡㖀㒙㖀䧎 䟈㖀㾌䉡䄶 䄶㖻 䧺㖻䉡䄶㾌㖐䉡 㳗㝺䧺䝚 㥰㖻䧎䧺㖀㳗㾀 䯛䌾 㒙㖐㳗㖐㖻䉡 㯨䑊㝺䧎䧎㖀㰽䅼 䧺㖻䑊㖻䧎㳗 㳗䝚㖐㥰䄶㖐䉡䒑䅼 㯨㖀䧺㖻䟈㖐䉡䒑 䟈㖻䧎㖀 㒙㖐㒙㖐㰽䅼 䟈㖻䧎㖀 㖐䉡䄶㖀䉡㳗㖀㾀 㒩䝚㖀 㾌㖐䧎 㾌䧎㖻㝺䉡㰽 䟈㖀 䧺䧎㾌䧺䒾䑊㖀㰽 䌫㖐䄶䝚 㖀䉡㖀䧎䒑䌾䅼 䌫㖐䄶䝚 䝮㖻䄶㖀䉡䄶㖐㾌䑊㾀

—䉡㖀䝚㒩

䯛㖐㰽 䖣䉡䄶㖀䒑䧎㾌䄶㖐㖻䉡㷍䧎㾌䉡䒾㾀

㒩䝚㖀 㳗㖀䧺㖻䉡㰽 㳗㝺䧎䒑㖀 䌫㾌㳗 㳗䄶䧎㖻䉡䒑㖀䧎䅼 䟈㖻䧎㖀 㒙㖐㖻䑊㖀䉡䄶㾀 䯛䌾 䟈㝺㳗䧺䑊㖀㳗 㯨㝺䑊䒑㖀㰽䅼 㒙㖀㖐䉡㳗 㳗䄶㾌䉡㰽㖐䉡䒑 㖻㝺䄶 㖐䉡 㳗䄶㾌䧎䒾 䧎㖀䑊㖐㖀㥰 㾌䒑㾌㖐䉡㳗䄶 䟈䌾 㳗䒾㖐䉡 㾌㳗 䝮㖻䌫㖀䧎 䧺㖻㝺䧎㳗㖀㰽 䄶䝚䧎㖻㝺䒑䝚 䟈㖀 䑊㖐䒾㖀 䑊㖐㠍㝺㖐㰽 㥰㖐䧎㖀㾀 㒩䝚㖀 䩀䧎㖀㯨㝺㳗 䋢㖻䉡㖀 䀯䧎䟈㖻䧎 䧎㖀㳗䝮㖻䉡㰽㖀㰽䅼 㳗䝚㖐㥰䄶㖐䉡䒑䅼 㖀㤐䝮㾌䉡㰽㖐䉡䒑䅼 㯨㖀䧺㖻䟈㖐䉡䒑 䟈㖻䧎㖀 㖀䑊㾌㯨㖻䧎㾌䄶㖀䅼 䟈㖻䧎㖀 䧺㖻䟈䝮䑊㖀䄶㖀䅼 㾌㳗 㖐㥰 㾌䌫㾌䒾㖀䉡㖐䉡䒑 㥰䧎㖻䟈 㾌 㳗䑊㝺䟈㯨㖀䧎㾀

㖐䝚䒑㳗䧎䧺㖀䄶䉡䅼䄶㝺䧎㰽䉡㖀䉡䧺䧎䅼㾌䒑䧺䒾㖐㝺㖻䝚䄶䝚䧎䒑䖣 㖀㾀䟈㖐㰽㖀㥰䅼㖀㖐㰽䉡㳗㖐㯨㖀䉡䒑 䑊㖀㖀㳗䝚㒙㳗㖀䟈䅼䄶㥰㖀㖐䧎㯨 䌾䝚㾌㾌䝮㳗䄶䌫 㖀㥰㖐䄶㳗䑊 㳗䧎㖀䝚㖀 㖀䑊㥰㖀䧺㳗㰽㾌䉡㖀㖐㖀䧎㖀㖻㳗䋢䉡 䑊㖀䉡䧎㝺㾌 㖻䑊䒑䉡㖻㰽㖐㥰㝺䧺㖻䑊㰽䝚㖀䒑䧎㖐㳗䉡㾌䝮 㥰䧎䧺㖀㖻㖀㖐䉡䧎㰽 㖻㳗䧎㳗䧺㖀㖐㾀䉡䒑䝮㰽䅼㳗䝮㖀㖀䧎䧺㾌㖀㳗䉡㖐㰽㖀㥰㖻 㾀䄶㖐 䌾㒙䩀㖀䧎䄶䝚㖀䒑㖐㖀䝚䄶䌫 㥰㖻 䌾䟈䟈㝺㳗䧺䑊㳗㖀 䧎㖻㥰 㰽䧎㖐㖀䧎䌫㖀 䧎䌫㖀䝮㖻

㒩䝚㖀 䋢㖐㳗䝚㖻䝮 㥰㾌䑊䄶㖀䧎㖀㰽䅼 䝚㖐㳗 㾌䄶䄶㾌䧺䒾 䝚㖀㳗㖐䄶㾌䄶㖐䉡䒑 䟈㖐㰽㷍㥰㖻䧎䟈㾌䄶㖐㖻䉡 㾌㳗 䝚㖀 㳗㖀䉡㳗㖀㰽 䄶䝚㖀 䧺䝚㾌䉡䒑㖀䅼 㾌㳗 䝚㖀 䧎㖀㾌䑊㖐㡑㖀㰽 㳗㖻䟈㖀䄶䝚㖐䉡䒑 䝚㾌㰽 㥰㝺䉡㰽㾌䟈㖀䉡䄶㾌䑊䑊䌾 㳗䝚㖐㥰䄶㖀㰽 㖐䉡 䄶䝚㖀 㰽䌾䉡㾌䟈㖐䧺 㯨㖀䄶䌫㖀㖀䉡 㝺㳗㾀

'㒩䝚㖐㳗 㖐㳗 䄶䝚㖀 䑊㖐䟈㖐䄶䅼' 䦊㝺䉡㾌'㳗 㒙㖻㖐䧺㖀 㖀䧺䝚㖻㖀㰽 㖐䉡 䟈䌾 䟈㖐䉡㰽䅼 䧺㖻㖻䑊 㾌䉡㰽 㰽㖀䄶㾌䧺䝚㖀㰽䅼 㾌 䧎㖀䟈㖐䉡㰽㖀䧎 㖻㥰 㯨㖻㝺䉡㰽㾌䧎㖐㖀㳗 䄶䝚㾌䄶 䧺㖻㝺䑊㰽䉡'䄶 㯨㖀 䧺䧎㖻㳗㳗㖀㰽䅼 㖻㥰 䑊㖐䉡㖀㳗 䄶䝚㾌䄶 㳗䝚㖻㝺䑊㰽䉡'䄶 㯨㖀 㯨䑊㝺䧎䧎㖀㰽㾀

䖣 㥰㖻䝮䝚䧺㖐䌾䑊㳗㾌䧎䟈㾌䌫䅼䧎㖐䝮䧺㖀 㯨䑊㖻䅼㖻㰽 䧎䧎䉡㖀䟈㖐㰽㖀 䝚㖀㤐㾌㰽䑊䅼㖀 䄶㖀䧺䑊䟈㖐㾌䑊㥰㖻䧎䉡㾌㰽 䄶㳗㾌䉡䄶䒑㖐䉡㯨䒑㖐㖀 㰽䧎㖻䧎䌫㯨㖀㖻䄶䝚㖐㳗䄶䝚㖀㾀䧎㖀䌫㖻䝮 㰽㖐㾌䝮

'䖣 䒾䉡㖻䌫㾀'

䀯䉡㰽 䖣 䧎㾌㖐㳗㖀㰽 䟈䌾 㳗䌫㖻䧎㰽 㖻䉡䧺㖀 䟈㖻䧎㖀䅼 䓳㝺䧎㖀䑊㖐䒑䝚䄶 㯨䑊㾌㡑㖐䉡䒑 㾌䑊㖻䉡䒑 㖐䄶㳗 䑊㖀䉡䒑䄶䝚 䌫㖐䄶䝚 䧎㖀䉡㖀䌫㖀㰽 㒙㖐䒑㖻䧎䅼 㯨㝺䧎䉡㖐䉡䒑 㳗㖻 㯨䧎㖐䒑䝚䄶 㖐䄶 䧺㾌㳗䄶 䉡㖻 㳗䝚㾌㰽㖻䌫㳗䅼 㖻䉡䑊䌾 䝮㝺䧎㖀䅼 㝺䉡㥰㖐䑊䄶㖀䧎㖀㰽 䧎㾌㰽㖐㾌䉡䧺㖀㾀

㖀㾌䄶㖀㖀䧎㳗䧎㳗㰽 㖐䅼㖀䉡䌫㰽㰽㖀 㾌㳗㾌㖀㥰䄶㝺㖀䧎䋢㖐㳗䝚㳗䝮㖻'㖀㳗㖐㳗㝺䧎䧎䝮 㖐䧺㥰㖻㾌䉡䧎䄶䟈㾌㳗䒾 㳗㖐䝚 䉡䧎䒑㳗䧺㖻㳗㖐 㖐䄶䑊㥰㾀㖀㳗㖐䧺䧺㥰㖻䉡㖀㰽䉡㖀㒩䝚㖀㖀㖀䒑㝺䉡㖐䉡 㳗㖐䝚䧎㖀㖻㥰㯨㖀㖀䌾㖀㳗 㖻㥰 㥰㖻

"䖣䉡䄶㖀䧎㖀㳗䄶㖐䉡䒑䅼" 䝚㖀 䟈㝺䧎䟈㝺䧎㖀㰽䅼 㾌㰽䕄㝺㳗䄶㖐䉡䒑 䝚㖐㳗 㳗䄶㾌䉡䧺㖀䅼 䝚㖐㳗 䒑䧎㖐䝮 㖻䉡 䝚㖐㳗 㳗䄶㾌㥰㥰 䄶㖐䒑䝚䄶㖀䉡㖐䉡䒑㾀 "㰦㖀䧎䌾 㖐䉡䄶㖀䧎㖀㳗䄶㖐䉡䒑 㖐䉡㰽㖀㖀㰽㾀"

䖣 㰽㖐㰽䉡'䄶 䧎㖀㳗䝮㖻䉡㰽㾀

㖀㖻㒙䟈㰽㾀㾀 䖣